An Unfamiliar Kindness

Chapter 4

Prologue

The letter. Oxford, UK. 29 July 2000.

Emilee was afraid, not of dying, but of picking up her mail.

This had to stop, she realized—her being so terrified. Each time the heaviness choked the life from her. All these years—all the therapy sessions—wasted.

Friday afternoons became a calculated dance, rehearsed to precision. Only in the safety of her apartment, the doors locked, two fingers of Dún Léire on the rocks later—would she sort through the postal pieces, berating herself for being such a coward.

And the therapist claimed I’d outgrow my angst. Well, she knows nothing.

It started as a game. He was smart. Serious. A complex man. She loved the challenge, in spite of the intimidation; the elaborate daily test. The changes were subtle, so slight she didn’t notice. Her insecurity grew under his ridicule. It turned into a maelstrom, from where there soon was no escape. And, when he got ill, it blossomed into full-scale dread—of living with an unpredictable man. From the mountaintops he plunged into valleys of desolation, the momentum hauling her along. She loved him and yet learned to fear for Caitlynn and herself when he became aggressive, vindictive. Then, one night, they disappeared; without word, without warning. No last kiss.

The search was a stillbirth from the start. Caitie’s red jacket was discovered a week later a mile downstream. Nothing else. How does a heart heal when it is denied farewell, denied closure, even a burial? It was three years later when Emilee filed for an annulment. For the declarations of presumed death, she had to wait seven.

She remained hopeful to receive word—a letter, a notice in a newspaper, a sign—even a body.

There was nothing.

When the official documents arrived, after seven years of waiting, seven years of hoping, she could begin her grieving.

Emilee surprised even herself as she bolted away from the counter, her face drained. The high stool crashed over, and her mail scattered as she glanced around the room. Shivering, she shook her hand with the letter as if to free itself of the calamity that had entered her house and from the horror that had attached itself to her fingers: a handwritten envelope with no return address.

They were dead. Connor and Caitie are dead. It was official. The courts had confirmed that all those many years ago. In the end, she believed it to be so.

And even if that were no longer the case, how could he have known my mailing address? If he found my address, then he knows where I live. Why an old-fashioned letter? He must be outside, watching the house. She shuddered. But he’s dead, Emilee. And Caitie? He must know what happened.

She scrutinized the letter under the glaring spotlights of her breakfast nook. It is him. The way he curled his n’s. He must have a tremor now. The post office stamp was legible: 27 July, 2000. Unmistakable. It had been mailed in Slough. So he went back. Still clinging to the unopened letter, she grabbed her cell phone and darted through the house, again checking the front door.

Emilee slipped the Yale lock into place one more time and turned the key in the second lock, then raced to the back for the kitchen door and turned the key one more time, then through to the living room where she yanked the sliding door open and stepped onto the small, open-sided porch. She glanced around then jumped down three brick steps. She paid her only row of blooming roses little attention as she dashed toward the garden gate on the side of the house. It was a wooden contraption built from split poles—like the fence, six-foot high—and covered by a trumpet creeper over its entire length. The creeper was late that year with flowering. The padlock was in place, and she gave it a confirmatory tug.

Her heart skipped another beat. The water. He can come along the water, along with the Castle Mill stream!

She raced through her backyard toward the twenty-foot stretch of dock, which had been built flush with the riverbank. She tried to tiptoe to the dock’s edge, but her momentum made her do a butterfly dance not to end up in the water. Once she regained her balance, she peered up and down the stream, cupping her hand against the glare. There was no traffic on the canal, not even a water snake to disturb its surface. It was too quiet for that time of the afternoon. She c****d her head. Water lapped against the undersides of the wooden dock. She inhaled the reassuring smell of water grass, rotting wood, and stale water.

Something yellow caught her eyes: the tip of her kayak, safely tucked in along the cast-iron fence to the side of the property, underneath a long, rectangular black tarpaulin she had strung to protect it.

She could not recall being in such a panic—not since she had moved back here to Rewley Road in 1983. At first, she had rented, but then she bought the place. She had never been afraid—not to this extent, not since they disappeared. Not since the courts had sent her the certificates.

Dare I hope again? Caitie would have turned twenty-seven in May.

She stepped through the patio door on her way back and heard thumping on her garden gate. She jumped. Someone had called her name.

She paused before slamming the door closed behind her with a scream, only to open it again and jut her head out. “Francois?”

The thumping was more assertive. “Emilee!”

“Hold on. I’m getting the key!”

She fumbled in the kitchen. The key was not hanging on its usual little hook. She dropped the letter and hurried outside. She could see narrow slices of her friend through the slits in the gate. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find the key.” She stopped to catch her breath. “Come around to the front door.”

“What’s going on?”

Running back toward the house, Emilee hollered, “Try the front door!” She slammed the patio door shut and locked it, scooped the letter from the floor, and made for the front entrance. Why could Francois not have phoned me like other civilized people, to say he was outside? The poor i***t. His head is still in Africa.

She jerked the Yale lock back and turned the second key, swung the heavy door open, and grabbed her startled guest by his jacket. She dragged him inside, kicked the door shut, slipped the Yale back in place, and turned the key. She spun around and took his face in her hands and kissed him smack on the lips. His face was one big frown.

“Francois.”

Francois Moolman took hold of Emilee’s shoulders as tears ran down her cheeks. He tried to dry them with his thumbs, stroking upward on each cheek, but failed. He inhaled her fear.

He hesitated, then kissed her pale lips. “What is wrong?”

“You won’t understand, this . . . this . . . .” She shook the condemning letter, which had grown to her skin.

He pulled her closer when she gave a sob and hugged her, her tremors shaking them both. “When I spoke to you earlier today, everything seemed fine.”

“It was fine. I received, or rather discovered, this letter only minutes ago among my stack of mail.” Emilee stuffed the letter into his hand.

And everyone thought I was mad for having this obsession about picking up my mail.

He broke the embrace and pulled her behind him into the house. “You don’t mind if we go in and perhaps sit down?”

He plopped onto her couch and studied the letter. “Isn’t it amazing that there are still people writing letters by hand and then with an ink cartridge?” He began reading aloud.

“Mrs. Emilee O’Hannigan.” Francois glanced at her. “You never told me your married name. I much preferred Emilee Stephens.” He turned the envelope over several times. “This was written by an individual who is sure of himself, or, perhaps not. The writing is a bit unsteady. It was written with a fountain pen, was mailed two days ago in Slough, and it has no return address.”

Francois held out his hand. “Come sit, Emilee O’Hannigan. Please.”

She took the letter from him as she sat down, their thighs touching, but she continued shaking. “Thank you, Mr. Sherlock, but I already know all that.” She struggled not to smile through her tears.

He studied her eyes, the face of the woman he had put on a plane in Windhoek, Namibia, four months ago. She had then seemed at peace with herself and her world.

“You plucked me through your front door like a Navy SEAL on a mission and then locked everything in a panic. Why are you so terrified?”

“This letter was written by Connor O’Hannigan.” Emilee took several breaths. “But he’s dead, or rather, was dead. I was married to him for four years during the seventies. He was involved with the Unions and The Troubles in the North. His involvement was much deeper than I had ever suspected. Then he disappeared one day, with our daughter. They were declared deceased by the courts in nineteen eighty-three, after seven years of hoping and waiting.”

“You had a girl?”

Emilee nodded.

“What . . . has he done to you?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head but avoided his eyes.

“He must have,” Francois insisted, lifting her chin.

“When he got angry, which was often, he would break things, but he never hit me,” she whispered. “Although, he taught me, taught us, what fear was. He was a master.”